


Way Past Time

by makeit_takeit



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Future Fic, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, M/M, Making Up, Reunited and It Feels So Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 14:52:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13079250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeit_takeit/pseuds/makeit_takeit
Summary: Geno arrives from Moscow on the Tuesday before Christmas. They’ve spoken precisely once in the last ten years – 6 months ago, when Sid drafted his son and then called to offer his home if Nikita wanted it.That doesn’t mean it has to be weird, Sid assures himself as he drives to the airport. All that old baggage, whatever mess they left unresolved between them back then, it’s all ancient history, water under the bridge now.They’d always known nothing lasts forever.





	Way Past Time

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure – I don’t know the NHL well, I’ve just been doing a lot of reading in the fandom. Then the news about Russia being banned from the Olympics happened and I thought: Seriously, these guys are never gonna get their shit together and will probably still be dealing with this kind of nonsense when Geno’s kid is old enough to play. 
> 
> And then I wrote something that was kind of adjacent to but not really about that. So, uh – enjoy?

Nikita has the fine features of his mother, the same chiseled jaw and pointed chin, the high Slavic cheekbones and feline eyes, the delicate and perfectly proportioned nose.

The same imperious, icy blue gaze.

Sidney has never been able to see anything of Geno in the kid’s face – not when he was a chubby-cheeked, tow-headed toddler wobbling on skates, calling him _Untle Tid_ , not when he was a gangly kid whipping around the ice after practice, begging Sid to show him how to do trick shots, and certainly not now as a scruffy-faced 18-year-old with the hopes and dreams of a franchise – a whole city – weighing heavy on his shoulders.

He can’t see Geno in Niki’s personality, either, not in his careful and reserved nature or in his voice, just as deep but so much softer, less booming somehow than his father’s. Niki’s not much of a talker, doesn’t do much chirping or joking around, and his laugh doesn’t come near as easy as Geno’s always did.

But he steps on the ice and there it is, almost like seeing a ghost. It’s in the powerful movements, too quick for a guy of his imposing size. In the long strides that just eat up the ice, the brutal precision with his stick, in the deft touch of his hands and the silky way he handles the puck.

It’s in the jut of his jaw and the set of his broad shoulders when he’s dialed in, the obvious way that they silently announce _I’m about to fuck your shit up._

That’s pure Geno, and watching Niki check Bollinger into the boards and swipe his puck with unabashed glee makes Sid smile behind the fingers that are curled pensively over his mouth, chin resting on his palm as he observes the team skate from the 17th row.

“How’d it feel out there, with Tourney?” he asks on the drive home, and Niki shrugs.

“Felt good, I think. Better than Creagsy, for sure, but. Hard to tell from one practice.”

Sid nods his agreement; that’s why he pushed Mario and Fletch to make the Creager-LeTourneau trade. Tourney’s always reminded Sid of James Neal re-incarnate out on the ice, only with better wheels and fewer penalties. And Niki’s game is modeled stride for stride on -. Well, obviously.

Sid didn’t even need to see them skate today to know it would be a fit; he feels like he already saw it 20 years ago.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Sid is used to being on his own, rattling around in his big house in the silence, watching film on mute, cooking for one in the spotlight of the range hood light, reading in bed with Steve curled up against his hip.

At least now that he usually doesn’t travel with the team, he can have a dog.

In the years before Nikita, Sid had become accustomed to living in the still and quiet, in dimly lit rooms with the curtains drawn. He wasn’t unhappy, not even lonely, really. He was just.

 _Fine_.

He was fine.

It took him a long time to get there.

It took _so_ fucking long, and he’s been _so_ fine, actually, almost _remarkably_ fine, that he wasn’t sure about bringing something – someone – in to upset the balance. But Niki is so young, and so far from home. And even though there’s no language barrier for him like there was for his father –

 _He grow up in Pittsburgh first, you know, have perfect English. Not have same problems I’m have, in beginning,_ Geno said, and it’s true _–_

but Niki’s got plenty of other things to deal with that Geno never had to. Like the shadow of 4 rings and a jersey that bears his name already hanging in the rafters above his head every time he skates out onto his home ice.

Mario suggested it, of course. Sid would never have thought of it on his own. But when Sid thinks back to his rookie year, to all the ways that Mario helped him navigate and understand and learn and accept and just _cope_ , he thought it would be nice to pay that forward, to try and offer Niki some of the same. Even though some of the comfort he found in the Lemieux house was because of Nathalie and the kids, from the smells that came from the kitchen and the giggling and laughing and fighting up and down the halls, from the no hockey at the dinner table rules. From the feeling of being part of a family.

Sid doesn’t have any of that to offer Niki, but he does have his own experience, and hopefully some wisdom to share.

 _He’s good kid,_ Geno said, _not be any trouble for you. He try to act like he’s tough, but is scare, you know? Live with Uncle Sid, make him feel more home, have less nerves, yeah?_

Sidney didn’t bother to point out that he hadn’t seen the kid in 10 years, or that Niki probably didn’t even remember he’d ever had an _Uncle Sid_ , because the point remains. It feels like the least he can do.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Niki stays in his room, mostly. Sid cooks for them both, they watch film together sometimes, or whatever games are on. Sometimes he goes out with the boys, and sometimes he doesn’t. Sid tries to let him know it’s okay either way, that everyone understands he’s got a lot on his plate and it’s a big adjustment, tries to explain that team bonding is important, but hockey is more important. Play well enough, and all else is forgiven.

Niki is playing more than well enough.

Two months in he’s the rookie leader in points and goals, and is a top twenty-five scorer in the league. The talking heads already have his name carved on the Calder, already have him down as the second half of the first ever father-son duo to win it, but Sid tries to shield Niki from that kind of shit as much as he can. Just like Mario did for him.

When the team’s on the road, Sid watches on TV, sometimes from his office at the arena if it’s an East Coast game, or at home from his bed if they’re out West. The Pens are winning more than they’re losing, more than they’ve won in the last decade. More than they’ve won since Sid got dumped on his head for the last time and the Pens machine that had churned out perennial playoff teams and captured multiple Cups suddenly ground to a halt, almost overnight.

He watches Bergstrom, their second-year backstop, throw three shut-outs in a row in November, like he’s made of brick. Watches their grizzled veteran D men terrorize opponents, leaving destruction in their wake. Watches Niki and Tourney tear it up night after night, getting better every time out, and by December it’s like they’ve got eyes in the back of their heads, some special radar that’s tuned just to each other and nothing else. Watches the pieces all starting to slot into place.

He watches the stands start to fill up again, hears the city start to catch the buzz.

For the first time in years, Sid feels something slightly deeper, something more penetrating and meaningful than just _fine_ stirring in his chest, in his gut.

“My pop wants to come for Christmas, and stay for the break,” Niki tells Sid over dinner. “If that’s okay,” he adds, clearly unsure, and Sidney feels like an asshole.

He never even thought to tell Niki that of course he can have guests, of course his family can come if they want to. Sid’s family spent a good third of his rookie season crammed into the Lemieux’s guest house with him.

“Absolutely,” Sid nods, “for sure, Geno, Anna, the girls. They’re all welcome to come whenever they’d like, stay as long as they want. There’s plenty of room here.”

“Oh,” Niki says into his dinner plate, “well.”

He takes a sip of his wine, dabs carefully at his mouth with his napkin, picks his fork up again to push his potatoes and green beans in circles without looking up.

“I think it’ll just be my pop, but maybe he could bring the girls, I’ll have to see. It’s kind of weird sometimes, since the divorce. Maybe my mom and sisters could come in the spring? That might be better for her work.”

“Sure,” Sid nods again, tries to be encouraging. Sid only knows Anna and Geno are divorced because it was mentioned in Niki’s bio as part of his international prospect info packet pre-draft, but he doesn’t know anything about the circumstances, or even how long ago it happened. It’s hard to read that frosty look in Niki’s eyes, to know if it’s a fresh wound or just a fact of life to him, at this point. Sid decides to go a whole new direction, rather than try to guess at an appropriate response.

“Or if you have any buddies that want to visit, or a girlfriend or anything. You’re welcome to have any guests you want. You live here, you should make yourself at home, okay?”

Niki makes a quiet, non-committal noise, then shovels the rest of his food down in about 90 seconds flat. He pushes his chair back with loud scrape of wood on wood, takes his plate to the sink and rinses out his wine glass, sticks his head back into the dining room.

“Thanks, Sid,” is all he says, then he heads upstairs.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Geno arrives from Moscow on the Tuesday before Christmas. They’ve spoken precisely once in the last ten years – 6 months ago, when Sid drafted his son and then called to offer his home if Nikita wanted it.

That doesn’t mean it has to be weird, Sid assures himself as he drives to the airport. All that old baggage, whatever mess they left unresolved between them back then, it’s all ancient history, water under the bridge now.

They’d always known nothing lasts forever, that most athletes don’t get a graceful or dignified ending. Most go out beaten down, on their last legs, a shadow of their former selves, still clinging to the hope that there might be one more moment of greatness left in them, somewhere down deep.

Sid went out barely conscious on a stretcher after 60 full seconds face-down, blacked-out on the ice, not able to correctly identify the date or the city whose fans were watching with sick, silent fascination. Sid went out torturously slowly, wasting away on the long-term IR, hoping too long for a miracle recovery that was never coming.

Geno went out angry, fed up with a team left in limbo by Sid’s injury, a body that was increasingly unable to do what it used to and an organization for whom he was once the beloved crown prince asking him to quietly move aside, to willingly take a back seat and let younger guys step up in preparation for a future he wouldn’t be part of. Geno went out with a bad shoulder and a bad back and two bad knees and 5 goals in 50 games his last season, in a desert city that never gave a shit about hockey anyway.

Sid knows Geno never blamed him for how it ended, not the way Sid always blamed himself. Not the way Sid blamed Geno, too, for leaving. For not staying, for not believing Sid could come back and things could go back to how they used to be.

He’d been right, of course, but Sid didn’t know that, then. Back then, all he’d known was that Geno was giving up on him, giving up on _them_ and all they’d been through, all they’d done together. All they’d meant to each other.

Sid knows now, after all these years and all that time spent in therapy, that there was nothing either of them could have done to make it turn out any different. No routine or good luck charm, no special combination of tasks performed in a certain order or particular facial hair configuration that could have saved him from that hit, from the way his skates flew out from under him and the way his helmet cracked when it hit the ice.

He knows now, that was always the way he was going to go out, and being better, being the very _best_ still couldn’t have stopped it. He knows Geno staying wouldn’t have fixed anything, wouldn’t have made anything better. He knows being Sidney Crosby didn’t guarantee him a happy ending, or even the opportunity to choose when to go, to do it on his own terms.

He knows now, a man with 16 NHL seasons, 4 rings and every major professional and international hockey award in existence credited to his name can only be grateful.

Sid really has no right to feel cheated. It took a long time to know it, but he knows it, now.

When he spots Sid, Geno immediately drops his bags and pulls him into a giant bear hug, yelling his name as only Geno can. He’s just as tall and rangy as ever, a little thicker through the middle maybe, messy hair long gone, shaved down to his scalp now in concession to his encroaching bald spot. He’s sporting a short, neatly-trimmed beard, speckled with grey and filled in more fully than anything he ever managed to grow during the playoffs. There are ten years’ worth of new lines around his eyes, across his forehead, but his big dopey grin is the same as ever.

He looks great – looks relaxed and healthy and _happy_ – and he smells like something Sid can’t identify but which will always and forever mean _Geno_ , and Sid can’t help but grin back, can’t help but squeeze Geno in return, help shoulder his bags as they head for the car.

There’s never going to be a time that Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin can walk through the airport together in Pittsburgh, PA and not draw a crowd, no matter how old they get, so they have to stop and pose for some pictures, sign some autographs, but eventually they make it to the car.

The team is on an overnighter to Buffalo, so they’re on their own until tomorrow morning, just the two of them until Nikita shows up. Sid had been a little worried about that, about the potential awkwardness of it, right up until the point that he saw Geno’s face and remembered, it’s just _Geno_.

They’re back at the house with just enough time for Geno to shower off the funk of 24 hours of traveling, and for Sid to order a pizza before the game starts.

“Beer or wine?” He asks, when Geno pads down the stairs in his sock feet, still looking damp.

“Got Gatorade? Feel so dehydrated from plane.”

“We really are old,” Sid snorts, and Geno shrugs. Sid brings a Gatorade and a bottle of water for Geno, and a beer for himself, and they dig into the pizza.

“La Tavola,” Geno moans enthusiastically at the slice in his hand, “so good, dream of you so long.”

They watch the boys deal with the Sabres 3-0, another shut out for Bergsy, an assist for Niki on Tourney’s goal, and a goal for himself, as well.

“You know who LeTourneau remind me of?” Geno asks, and Sidney just raises his eyebrow, _of course_.

Geno grins his big Geno grin, and squeezes the back of Sid’s neck.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Niki and Geno chatter at each other in Russian, Niki perpetually wearing the same half-fond, half-irritated look on his face that every eighteen-year-old in history has directed at their parents. Geno goads him into smiling more, into a laugh once in awhile, which is nice, and Sid loves observing them together, Niki’s eye rolls when Geno barks something sharp at him in Russian, or the pleased blush he sometimes wears when Geno says something sweet-sounding and soft, and ruffles Niki’s shaggy hair.

Over the first few days, some things become clear to Sid.

Geno doesn’t drink at all, continuing to eschew the beer and wine that’s perpetually on offer, his son’s gaze careful and watchful as he does so. So, that’s obviously a thing.

Sid stops offering, and both Niki and Geno look relieved.

And, although Niki obviously hero-worships his father, and is clearly made to feel more at home by Geno’s presence in Sid’s house, he seems unnerved by Geno’s attendance at the arena. At the first home game he goes to, Geno holds court with the local media who eat up his old-school Geno-isms like candy, then the in-arena announcer yells _That’s a chip off the ol’ block, folks!_ while the replay of Niki scoring runs on the jumbotron, followed by a live shot of Geno clapping and whistling up in the box. All the post-game questions for Niki are about how much it means to have his dad here, and he abruptly hits a scoring slump that starts with the next game and keeps sliding on into January. He records only two points and no goals over 7 games, and shies away from the media and the team, retreating into the shell he’d just started to come out of.

“Maybe I go home early, yeah?” Geno asks Sid one night after Niki’s gone up to his room. “He do so good before, seems like I’m jinx him.”

Sid’s never been clear on exactly what the plans are for his return to Russia, but he doesn’t think Geno leaving ahead of schedule is the solution.

For one, Niki likes having him around the house, that much is clear and Sid tells him so.

“I think he’s just self-conscious with the comparisons to you, that’s all,” Sid tries to re-assure him. “You being so. Y’know…visible. I think it just makes him feel like he’s even more under the microscope than usual.”

Geno nods pensively, and his English is rusty enough that Sid’s not sure how much of that he really caught, but he seems to get it instinctively if nothing else. He stops talking to the media so much, starts sitting way back in the back of the box where it’s hard for the cameras to find him during games. Niki starts scoring again after the first of the year.

Which is good, because for two, Sid also likes having Geno around.

It’s been nice, having someone there. Someone who talks, who laughs, who jokes around and gives Sid a hard time about his weird habits and chirps at him about his cooking. It feels comfortable, familiar.

It feels just like every one of those same old bonds of hockey brotherhood Sid grew up with and leaned on for half his life, then abruptly lost one day, never to be felt again. Until now, with Geno back in his life, back in his house, back on his couch watching hockey and eating take out with Sid like it’s 2010 again.

“Whatever happen to Kathy?” Geno asks one night in front of the TV, Rangers-Habs on low. “I always think you marry her, have couple kids.”

Sidney doesn’t have a quick or an easy answer for that one. He sucks his tongue against his teeth and considers how to respond.

“I thought so too, probably,” he shrugs, non-committal. “We did a good job making it work, for a long time. She had plenty going on in her own life, never minded that hockey came first, or that we didn’t really see each other that often. She was a great hockey girlfriend, y’know?”

He takes a swig of his beer, darts a quick look at Geno then back at the TV.

“When there was no more hockey, no more traveling. When it was just us here together every day,” Sid shrugs again. “It didn’t last long, after that.”

Geno’s quiet for the rest of the second period, but at the intermission he pipes up again.

“Niki say you not date anyone, huh?” He raises his eyebrows, a question. “No girlfriend?”

Sid knows there was plenty of speculation in the room and beyond, back then, even though he had some girlfriends, even though he would rather have died than to acknowledge it. He knows Geno in particular won’t be shocked - considering.

Even so, Sid still doesn’t say it out loud much, doesn’t discuss it directly with any degree of regularity or practice. He also knows he’s 47 fucking years old, and it’s a different world than it was back then. He sighs and bites the bullet, looks Geno in the eye.

“I stopped having girlfriends a long time ago, G.”

Geno nods, watching him carefully.

“Boyfriend, then?” he asks, casually nonchalant.

“Not right now,” is what Sid says. _Not ever_ , is what he doesn’t say.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Geno heads back to Moscow in mid-January, flies straight out of Miami after he and Niki spend a few days at Geno’s house there over the break.

Sidney spends the break working on a trade deal, and by the time Niki’s back from Miami the Pens have a new second line center and a couple fresh-legged, eager young wingers to help take some of the scoring pressure off Niki and Tourney.

Niki wins the accuracy shooting competition on All-Star weekend, and the talking heads practically cream themselves with their endless comparisons to Geno. Sid does his best to impress upon Niki that you should never listen too much to the critics, or to the praise.

The truth always lies somewhere in between.

The team picks up steam after the All-Star break, reeling off a five-game win streak out of the gate and pulling into a Wild Card slot by the end of February. Sid doesn’t want to jinx it by thinking about the playoffs, but he can almost taste that post-season rush, can almost hear the roar of the crowd, the way it sounds before Round 1, Game 1, when anything is still possible.

Anna comes with the girls during a three-game home stand the first week of March, insisting on staying at a hotel downtown, declaring that they don’t want to inconvenience Sid.

Anna is as beautiful as ever, and just as cool as Sid remembers. Her hand is like ice in his when he shakes it, her gaze not any warmer when he greets her up in the box before a game against the Thrashers.

Elena and Tatiana are both tall and lanky, like their parents and their brother. Elena is 15, with Geno’s dark eyes and almost-black hair, his wide mouth and full lips and prominent nose. She’s sullen and disinterested and reminds Sid of Taylor’s daughter Maya, who turned thirteen this past summer and suddenly transformed from a sweet little girl to a snarky, eye-rolling adolescent overnight.

Elena barely says a word when she’s introduced to Sidney, staring instead at her mobile device for the entire duration of the game.

“She doesn’t like to leave her _boyfriend_ ,” Tatiana sing-songs at her sister, giggling when Elena just glares. She’s 12 and the spitting image of her mother and brother, but with the exuberance of her father. She chatters excitedly to Sid in near-perfect English, wearing a Malkin jersey (17, not 71) and waving the promotional _Let’s Go Pens_ poster that was handed out to fans at the door.

“Bergsy!” She screams, every time Bergstrom gets a save. Sid knows she plays goalie on her team in suburban Moscow, that Bergstrom is her favorite player. _Even more favorite than brother_ , Geno had laughed as he told Sid about her.

She’s the only one of Geno’s kids that was never old enough to call him _Uncle Sid_ , before, and she’s the only one that calls him that now.

“Zhenya stay for three weeks, yes?” Anna asks quietly, arms crossed as they stand side-by-side at the glass partition at the front of the box.

“Uh, yeah, something like that.”

She nods silently, eyes never leaving the ice even though Niki isn’t even in the game right now.

“He make Nikita nervous, when he come. He make big deal when he here, make reporters want talk about even more - new Malkin, old Malkin.” She finally turns her head, meets Sid’s eyes.

“Nikita want so bad for his papa be proud. But he only can be Nikita. He never be Zhenya – different person, different hockey.”

Sid watches her carefully as she speaks, and he knows it probably pains her that her baby, her only son is half a world a way from her now, living in the house of a man she always resented, never really trusted.

And with good reason, Sid can admit now.

Just because Sid and Geno were both too young and stupid and hockey-obsessed and terrified of the repercussions to let the thing between them turn into anything, back then.

Well. That doesn’t mean Geno’s heart wasn’t still divided, doesn’t mean there wasn’t still a space in his life reserved exclusively for hockey and Sidney, a part of him she could never really reach, and Anna’s a smart woman. Whatever Geno may or may not have told her, she knew enough from the start to be suspicious of Sid, that much was always clear.

“I understand what he’s going through,” Sid says, “I know how hard it is to deal with those kinds of unrealistic expectations.” He’s not sure Anna knows, or would ever have had any reason to know, the circumstances of Sid’s early years in the league, so he’s not sure if she’ll believe him, but he tries to let his sincerity show in his eyes.

“We drafted Niki because he’s a fantastic hockey player, not because he’s Geno’s kid. We just want him to be who he is, to play his own game. And he’s doing that. He’s doing great.”

She stares shrewdly at him, then nods, appeased for now. Then the final horn is sounding and Tatiana is grabbing his hand, begging to be taken down to the ice.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Geno’s back for the last two weeks of the regular season, but he stays out of sight more, doesn’t make his presence known to anyone outside the organization, and generally tries to be a little more inconspicuous than he was on his last visit. It’s not really Geno’s style, but it seems to work for his son.

Niki has a great finish to the season, 8 points in the last 6 games, and the Pens climb to 3rd in the Metropolitan by the end.

It’ll be the Pens’ first Playoff appearance in six years, the first since Sid’s been back with the team in the front office, and the boys open against the Flyers. The city is electric with that start-of-the-post-season optimism, ready to fire up the old rivalry.

Sid and Geno sit together on the team plane, rack together on the road, stand side by side in the box during the games, and are featured on the big screen any time the Philly crowd needs something to get fired up over. Sid stands with his arms crossed in his suit, his eyes on the ice like he can’t hear the booing, like it’s not even happening. Geno on the other hand smiles and waves, and pulls out the front of his sweater to shake the Pens logo at the camera, turns around to jerk both thumbs at the back of his Malkin 17 jersey to rile the crowd up even more.

Sid worries how Niki is going to respond to that, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He scores 3 times in two games and is the only one who seems to be playing well, actually, so Sid leaves Geno alone about his antics, figures Niki can chastise his dad if he thinks it’s warranted.

The Pens go down 0-2 in Philly.

Before game 3 at home, Coach asks Sid and Geno to address the team. Sid, ever the Captain, talks about dedication and focus, about heart and teamwork and putting it all on the line for the boys. Geno claps him on the shoulder, grinning fondly.

“We have our time, now is your time,” is all he adds. “You want stop see our handsome face all around all the time, you win, make fans forget about us, yeah?”

The room erupts into good-natured chirping and jeering at that, and they head out of the locker room to the ice whooping and yelling.

Sid and Geno stand back and let them go, then Geno pounds his fist against Sid’s fist, against his chest, pulls their foreheads together, and shoves Sid out the door in front of him.

Sid feels something pulling in his chest, tight and sudden - something that feels dangerous and exhilarating and a little terrifying, but in a good way.

They win game 3 but lose game 4 at home, and head to Philly for Game 5 on the brink of elimination.

In their hotel room the night before, they watch Game 4 of the Edmonton-Anaheim series while Sid twitches and fidgets with barely suppressed anxiety and Geno laughs at him.

“This is so much worse than playing,” Sid whines, as the broadcasters are talking about the Pens-Flyers series during intermission. “At least then I could _do_ something. Now all I can do is watch. I feel totally useless.”

“No way,” Geno snorts, “play is much worse. Always worry if I play good, worry I let down team, let down fans, let down Sid.”

Sid rolls his eyes at that, and Geno grins.

“Now is just scream and cheer and hope for win. Out of my hands, yeah? Best this way.”

“You’re crazy,” Sid sighs, and mutes the TV so he doesn’t have to hear any more about how the Pens have no chance tomorrow.

“You too stress, Sid, need to relax. When the last time you get laid, huh?”

“Shut up,” Sid starts, but then Geno is sliding across the space between their beds, sitting beside him with their thighs pressed together.

“C’mon, Geno,” he shrugs, almost disbelieving, but he already sees that look on Geno’s face. It sends a jolt through him, when he recognizes it for what it is.

“I know how make you relax, Sid,” Geno grins, purposefully leering. “You think I’m forget? Not forget nothing - remember everything.”

Probably Sid should be rattled by this sudden shift in what has thus far been a purely platonic re-kindling of their old friendship, probably should be concerned about the impact this might have on said friendship. Probably he should be resisting that look on Geno’s face, Geno’s hand on his thigh. But he’s not doing any of those things.

All he’s doing is leaning back against the pillows and tugging Geno with him, easy as it ever was.

 

**\+ + +**

 

The boys pull off the Game 5 win, improbably and in defiance of all conventional wisdom and expectation.

Sid feels more settled afterward, the stress and anxiety and adrenaline all burned off, and Geno just slides behind him while he’s brushing his teeth in the hotel bathroom, one hand on Sid’s hip and a quick brush of hot lips against his shoulder, then sheds his clothes and steps into the shower. Sid’s asleep before the water even turns off.

Back at home the night before Game 6, Geno hovers in the doorway of Sid’s bedroom, that same look on his face.

“For luck?” he shrugs, eyebrows high. Sid snorts and shakes his head, but he closes his book and puts it on the bedside table as Geno shuts the door behind him. Niki’s bedroom is in another wing of the house, but Sid knows Geno’s thinking about it when he pulls his palm tight across Sid’s mouth and presses his face into Sid’s shoulder to muffle both their groans.

“What happened with Anna?” Sid asks afterward, shoulder to shoulder on his bed with Geno’s sweaty skin still pressed against his own.

“Aaaaarrrrrggghhh,” Geno groans theatrically, low and pained, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Russian man and Russian woman cannot be marry to each other, I think,” he says. “Too much emotions, always drama.”

“I’m pretty sure some Russian men and women make it work okay,” Sid elbows him and grins.

“Maybe,” Geno shrugs, “Maybe they all miserable, in private, yeah? Or maybe is only us that fucks it all up.”

It’s quiet for a minute before Geno turns on his side, props his head up on his hand and looks down at Sid.

“Also, I’m good Papa, bad husband. Drink too much, yell too much. Always so -,” he grits his teeth and makes an angry, frustrated face, waves his free hand in the air futilely. “Stopping play hockey was. Was really tough, you know?”

Sid reaches up and slides his palm against Geno’s jaw and nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, G – I know.”

Niki scores his first career hat trick in the Pens Game 6 loss, and punches the back of his stall in the locker room, the most emotional display Sid’s ever seen from him. Sid orders takeout from Geno’s favorite Russian restaurant and picks it up on the way home, figuring how is a time for comfort food if ever there was one. Geno and Niki are huddled on the couch when Sid walks in, Niki crying in his dad’s arms while Geno murmurs softly to him in Russian, and Sid forgets sometimes he’s still just a kid, not even 19 yet. Niki is so composed, so solid and steady and unflappable, he makes it easy to overlook.

Sid quietly puts the food on the coffee table, nodding at Geno over Niki’s head, then leaves them to it.

Geno’s eyes are red and puffy when he shows up at Sid’s door later, and Sid meets him halfway across the room with open arms.

“Remember ’07?” Sid whispers into his neck. “I felt like someone ripped my heart out and stomped on it.”

“Just hard see him hurting, my baby boy,” Geno mumbles into Sid’s hair. “Always blaming self, like someone else I know.”

“Like someone else _I_ know, too,” Sid points out, and squeezes Geno tight. “At least they won two, right? Better than we did on our first try, and we ended up alright in the end.”

Geno nods.

“This is what I’m try to tell him.”

Two days later Geno takes Niki home to Moscow for the summer to lick his wounds.

“We’ll get ‘em next year, Sid,” Niki tells him as they hug goodbye. “I promise,” and Sid believes him.

 

**\+ + +**

 

The off-season is always busy for the front office, making personnel decisions and negotiating contracts and trades, and Mario wants him in on everything. Sid knows he’s being groomed, knows Mario has his eye on the GM’s office for Sid, eventually, but until Fletch retires it’ll still be him pulling the trigger, and Sid job is just learning everything he can, soaking up the ins and outs of the business side of things. Putting a roster together is one part cold hard numbers and one part gut feeling, an endless process of trying and tinkering and re-arranging in search of the magical, mystical, indefinable collection of factors that will create just the right chemistry. To be good at it, at building a team, it takes an innate feel for which parts work together, an instinct for predicting the way the independent pieces will fit in just so and make the whole operation go, and Sid’s got to admit, he’s way more into it than he ever would have guessed, back when Mario first made him the offer.

Back then Sid was still busy feeling sorry for himself, wallowing in self-pity and doing nothing with his life. Back then he was still burning with that futile anger, eaten up with frustration and rage at the way it all ended, at Geno leaving and Kathy leaving and at his traitorous body and his damaged fucking brain.

It took years – years of working through all his bullshit with his therapist, and years of Mario convincing him he wasn’t just offering out of pity, that he really believed Sid could be _good_ at this – before Sid finally, finally accepted.

Of course, Mario was right. Sid thinks he should probably have figured out a lot sooner in life, Mario’s always right.

Despite the busy schedule Sid always manages to fit in a couple of weeks at the Lake house with the whole family, and the last few years he’s made a point to take a solo vacation every off season as well, for a particular kind of relaxation that’s less about rest and more about relief.

It doesn’t feel quite as urgent this year, somehow, probably because unlike years past, Sid has actually been touched by a hand other than his own in the last 10 months. Still, the thing with Geno wasn’t much, wasn’t enough to tide him over a whole year, certainly, so just before camp starts, he goes to Miami for a few days and gets his dick sucked by a different guy every night and once in the afternoon, too, just because he can. Because he still doesn’t feel that comfortable dating or even hooking up in Nova Scotia, or Pennsylvania, but hooking up in Florida feels fine, feels safe. Nobody in Miami even remembers the name Sidney Crosby, if they ever knew it in the first place.

It’s stupid, he knows. There are openly gay guys in the league now, have been for years. And he’s not a player anymore, doesn’t need to worry how it’ll go over in the room, or if it’ll fuck up the camaraderie with his teammates, make them lose respect for him. Nothing is like it used to be, really, and he _knows_ that. But that ingrained need to hide, those years of living with the fear of exposure in all facets of his private life, sexual or otherwise, haven’t totally been eradicated from his emotional hind-brain, no matter what his more rational cerebral cortex tells him.

The best thing about not playing anymore, about getting older and farther removed from the spotlight of super-stardom, is the increasing anonymity it provides him. Sid hasn’t been anonymous since he was 13 years old, and there’s freedom in it.

His last night in Miami he brings a tall, broad-shouldered Puerto Rican guy with a shaved head and a dark beard back to his hotel room and lets the guy fuck him, once that night and again in the morning. His body is solid and heavy and hot against Sid’s back, he fucks deep and hard and steady just how Sid likes it, whispers soft, incomprehensible Spanish against Sid’s skin.

It’s as close to perfect as Sidney’s ever had, not counting Geno, and that’s pretty high fucking praise.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Geno comes back with Niki for training camp and stays through the start of the season.

Mostly, he shadows Sid.

They all eat together in the morning, and ride to the arena. Then Niki does team stuff, and Geno does Sid stuff. He sits with him in the stands and watches the team skate, or sits in Sid’s office and listens to him take calls, or follows him down to work out together, whenever the team’s not using the facilities.

At night Geno helps Sid cook, then helps him clean up. They watch film or some TV, or Geno rolls around on the floor wrestling with Steve, getting him to growl and yip and snap and bow with his tail waving excitedly in the air while Sid laughs at them both.

Sometimes they go down to the shooting range in the basement. It’s still Sid’s favorite way to blow off steam, and his favorite place to zone out into the closest thing to a meditative state Sidney Crosby is ever likely to reach. But with Geno there, he also has someone to keep him company, to challenge him and make him laugh and knock him into the wall and steal his puck, occasionally. It reminds Sid of something he’d forgotten he was missing – fun _._

Having Geno around is _fun_ , and that’s not even taking into account the sex.

Some nights, Geno goes to bed in his room next to Niki’s, and others he spends in Sid’s bed, not even bothering anymore to set his alarm or worrying about getting back to his room before Niki wakes up.

“What if he sees you coming out of here, or goes looking for you and wonders where the hell you are in the middle of the night?” Sid asks one morning as Geno’s pulling on his shorts, sun shining bright through the window.

“He’s not little boy, come to sleep by Papa when he have bad dreams. Nikita is grown man now.” Geno shrugs. “Old enough to know how world works.” He leans over to plant a kiss on Sid’s shoulder and shoot him a grin, then he’s out the door, still pulling his t-shirt over his head.

Sidney’s not entirely sure what that means, but he’s trying not to let it make him nervous. If Geno doesn’t care about what Niki sees or doesn’t see, thinks or doesn’t think, why should Sid?

Niki never seems to wonder, or notice, or care too much about his father’s relationship with Sid, so Sid just lets it lie. One night when they’re scuffling around in the basement, chirping and laughing and cursing and yelling and checking each other into the walls, hooting and taunting each other when one of them manages to hold onto the puck long enough to put it in the net, Sid looks up and sees Niki sitting on the basement steps watching them with his elbows folded across his knees, grinning and laughing quietly at them, so he figures whatever Niki thinks is going on, he’s doing fine with it.

Niki was in Russia for the Awards last summer, so before the home opener, the Calder Trophy is presented in front of the home crowd by the only other Penguins to win it – Mario, and his father. Niki’s forced to make a little speech that Sid knows he’d rather not have to make, but he’s gracious as always, thanking his teammates first, then his coaches, the Pittsburgh fans and the Pens organization, Mario specifically.

“And I need to thank Sid,” he says, “for everything he’s done for me. Not just last year, but when I was younger. He helped my pop teach me to skate, and how to play hockey, and I’m just really grateful to both of them for always being there for me.”

Sid didn’t even know Niki remembered that, thought maybe he’d been too young. His heart feels full to bursting, too big for his chest. Somewhere deep down, he’d been afraid that watching the ceremony might bring up that same old cycle of disappointment and resentment and failure and shame he’s always felt over the Calder and the fact that his name’s not on it, but watching Niki take a victory lap with it lofted over his head, all Sid feels is proud.

 

**\+ + +**

 

The boys come out of the gates like lightening, winning 18 of their first 25 and riding six-game win streak into December.

Sid helps Niki buy a car and walks him through the process of getting his driver’s license, quizzing him from the online guide before he goes in to take the test and driving him down to the DMV, waiting there to hear the results.

He sends Geno a picture afterward of Niki’s big grin, holding his provisional license and the keys to his new Benz. Sid always wanted kids, just another dream he’s had to learn to let go of over the years, but having Niki around lets him feel a little paternal, sometimes. It’s nice.

Niki’s less reclusive this year, both with the team and with Sid, sometimes bringing some of the boys over to play video games or watch hockey or movies on the giant screen in the media room, sometimes chirping about Sid’s lack of a social life.

“I think maybe my pop’s the only person you like, Sid,” Niki grins one night over dinner, when Sid’s been complaining for maybe longer than he realized about certain members of the media and their propensity to perpetuate unsubstantiated trade rumors. “Well, and your family, and Mario’s family. That’s it.”

“I like you okay,” Sid snaps back, “ _most_ of the time.”

“Only because I’m a Malkin. Crosbys, Lemieuxs and Malkins, those are the special exceptions. Well, except I think you don’t like my mama too much, huh?” It comes out of nowhere, Niki’s voice still trying to sound like he’s teasing, but not quite selling it. That steely blue gaze is fixed on Sid like a test.

“I. What?” Sid breathes, momentarily surprised, but then he slides on autopilot into his well-worn persona, Boring Media Response Robot. “Your mom and I never knew each other that well, but I certainly never disliked her.”

Niki just stares at him, a steady challenge from under raised eyebrows.

“I really didn’t,” Sid tries to put a little more sincerity into it, “I _don’t_. I just think. We had a difference of opinion about what Geno’s priorities should be, ya know, back then. She thought he was too focused on hockey and not enough on his family. That the team – that I relied on him too much and took his time away from you guys.”

Sid blinks, feeling like an asshole.

“She had a point, so. That’s on me, not her.”

“What about him?” Niki asks, his eyes softer, and uncomfortably knowing all of a sudden. “It’s on him, not you, don’t you think? He was the one who had to decide. He was a grown man, Sid, he made his own choices.”

Sid shakes his head, quick to try and avoid any blame landing on Geno’s shoulders, trying to keep it all for himself.

“No, it was. I was different then. More – demanding.”

Niki snorts, and Sid grins.

“Hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. You think I’ve got a one-track mind _now_? Jesus, you should have seen me then. Hockey was all I cared about, the only thing that mattered to me, so I just. I wasn’t very fair to some of my teammates, guys who wanted to make room in their lives for other things to matter, besides just hockey. Like your dad.”

Niki sighs and pushes his chair back, gathers up his flatware and napkin and stacks them on his plate as he stands to leave the table.

“I know you think I don’t understand how things were. Are. But I do. And my mama knew who she was marrying when she did it, huh? So I shouldn’t be giving you shit about it, Sid, sorry – that wasn’t cool. Thanks for dinner.”

He claps his hand down on Sid’s shoulder, then carries his things into the kitchen and leaves Sidney sitting alone, wondering what exactly that was about.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Geno’s back again for a few weeks over the break, then Anna and the girls come for a few weeks in the Spring, just like last year. Sid tries again to convince them to stay at the house, but Anna once again insists on a hotel.

She asks him during intermission at one of the games they attend, sitting with one seat between them in the box and looking pointedly at the ice, pointedly not at Sid, which he’s grateful for:

“So. Now you and Zhenya?”

He hopes maybe she’ll miss the way his face heats up, his ears go red.

“Geno and me?” he stammers. “What do you mean?” He stops there and shakes his head, and she snorts next to him, unconvinced.

“You lie,” she says, and snaps her eyes over to him, shrewd and icy. “Just like always. So many years, and you both still pretending is nothing, yes? I already know Zhenya is stupid idiot, but I think maybe you not so stupid, Sidney.”

Sid doesn’t have anything to say to that, but he does think about it. He thinks about it a lot.

When Geno is back at the end of the season, Sid is suddenly, acutely aware he doesn’t know much of anything about Geno’s life back in Russia, whether or not he’s got a job there, or business interests of some kind, or a – someone. Niki’s never mentioned it, Geno’s never mentioned it, and of course, Sid’s never asked.

Honestly, he’s just been happy for the time he gets with Geno, happy for the comfort of someone who knows him well enough to read his moods, well enough that he doesn’t even blink an eye at Sid’s stranger habits or more ridiculous behavioral rituals. In the years since his playing career ended, his reliance on superstitious routines has waned quite a bit, but he’s still Sidney Crosby. It’s never going to go away completely.

The few times Sid has tried to actually date someone – a male someone, in his post-hockey life – he’s just felt exposed and idiotic, ping ponging between trying to impress them with how normal he is by pretending to be normal, and trying to ease them into the full scope of his weirdness without freaking them out.

Geno already knows it all, and they learned to accept and live with each other’s more annoying personality traits and eccentric habits a long time ago. With Geno, it’s not something Sid even thinks about, he just is who he is.

He starts to wonder if maybe Geno feels the same way, when Geno stays a little longer with each visit. Sid knows he misses Niki, but he starts to wonder if Geno also misses Pittsburgh, misses being around the organization, being around hockey. He starts to wonder if Geno also misses _him_ , which makes him start to wonder if maybe Anna has a point about them being stupid idiots.

He starts to wonder if he should do something he and Geno have never really done before: talk about it.

It feels too hectic, like too much to think about during the post season, so he locks the thought away for the off season. That’s always been when Sid’s done all his best thinking.

For now, Sid and Geno sit together on the team plane, rack together on the road, stand side by side in the box during the games, and continue to be featured on the jumbotrons of opposing teams’ arenas, as a means to gin up boos from the home crowd.

They wake up together, eat their meals together, spend their days and nights together, ride the highs and mourn the lows of each win and loss together.

The Pens beat Columbus in 6, then Washington in 5, then Bergsy goes down with a groin injury in game 1 of the Eastern Conference Finals, and the wheels come off. They get swept by the Habs and that’s that, season over.

This year Sid sits on the couch with Niki and Geno and cries alongside them, then they all eat Russian food and drink vodka together. When they finally head up to bed, Geno stops on the landing of Sid’s giant staircase, hugs Niki tight and kisses his hair, then Niki goes up the stairs to the left, toward the hall with his and Geno’s rooms, and Geno goes right, with Sid.

“What exactly does Niki know about us?” Sid asks later, after, when Geno’s got him wrapped up tight in his arms, Sid’s back to Geno’s chest.

“Everything he need to know,” Geno rumbles sleepily into his ear, so casual and unconcerned and _vague_ that Sid would smack him, if he wasn’t so warm and sated and so, so tired.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Sid doesn’t take the lid off the box where he’d stuffed the idea of _him and Geno_ until well into the summer.

He goes to the lake house with the family, goes to L.A. and gets his dick sucked a lot, and he tries to make it a point to think about _him and Geno_ , he really does, but.

He doesn’t actually know where to start.

Back then, what went on with Geno, what he felt for Geno, it was all secondary to hockey. Because back then, _everything_ was secondary to hockey.

Sid was a hockey player, and hockey players weren’t gay, so Sid wasn’t gay.

Sid wanted Geno, _always_ wanted Geno, but he couldn’t have Geno and be a hockey player. And Sid was a hockey player, so he couldn’t have Geno - not _really_.

Not in any way that could really count, or mean anything, or _last._ Because to want hockey with the burning intensity and focus that Sid always wanted hockey, it had to be the only thing, no room for anything else to distract him.

He never even felt like he was making a choice, not really, and even though they never talked about it, he doesn’t think Geno did, either. Neither of them were going to risk their careers, no matter what they felt for each other. Whatever it was or could have been, neither of them were ever going to choose it over hockey, and they both knew it. There were no hard feelings, no resentments or emotional turmoil, not about that. It was a given, understood. Hockey always, always came first.

The resentment only came when Geno was suddenly willing to choose _other_ things over hockey – things like a baby, which meant Anna too, then another baby, then another baby, each one of them demanding more of his time and energy and effort, each one taking a little more of his focus from hockey and the team and Sid.

There were never any hard feelings about coming in second to hockey. But hockey coming in second to Anna and the kids – that’s where the hard feelings came in.

Sid doesn’t have the slightest idea how to begin to unpack all that with Geno, or if it’s even necessary. They didn’t speak for 10 years, for fuck’s sake, and they managed to fall right back in rhythm with each other with no difficulty at all. So, maybe bringing it all up again now would be pointless.

Of course, maybe trying to make the thing with Geno into something it’s never been, after all these years, would also be pointless. Sid can come up with lots of good reasons not to even try, starting with _Geno doesn’t live here anymore_ and ending with _Geno probably doesn’t want me like that, anyway_.

It seems so much easier, so much less risky to just leave it alone.

But the thing is, Sidney Crosby now is not the same Sidney Crosby that first met Geno 30 years ago, not even the same Sidney Crosby that watched Geno walk out of his life 12 years ago and thought _fuck him anyway_. He’s been to the top of the Mountain and he’s fallen all the way back down, too many times to count. He knows what really matters now, and he know _who_ really matters. He’s not afraid anymore, not like he used to be. Not of who he is, or of who he isn’t. Not of what he wants, or even of wanting things. People. _Geno._  

And he does want Geno, just like he’s always wanted Geno.

In the end, it turns out it’s as simple as that.

 

**\+ + +**

 

As the summer passes, Sid is just biding his time for the start of camp, for when Niki comes back and Geno inevitably comes with him, and Sid can give the speech he’s been working out in his head for months.

But Niki comes back almost six weeks before camp, eager to start working out with the guys who stayed in town, hungry for a fresh season and a fresh start.

When the pre-season starts and the regular season approaches and he still doesn’t hear any noise about Geno coming over, though, Sid sends a text.

_Planning to be here for opening night?_

They text fairly frequently lately, more like how they used to – Sid sends a photo of a mother deer with her two babies in his back yard, Geno sends a photo of a fish he catches, Sid asks for Geno’s opinion on whether Dierks or Lund would be a better acquisition for the PK, Geno asks what age kids stop playing co-ed hockey in the U.S., and says Tatiana’s mad that she has to play girls-only now that she’s 13.

They’ve gone back and forth that way all summer, but this time when he texts, Sid doesn’t hear back for two days. What finally comes back is:

_Can’t but soon maybe. I’m try to work out thing with Anna._

Sid is filled with a sudden and overwhelming frustration with Geno’s imperfect English, the kind he hasn’t felt in about 25 years.

How the hell is he supposed to know what _I’m try to work out thing with Anna_ means, for fuck’s sake? Unless he just asks Geno to clarify, which – yeah, he can’t do that.

So he just texts back,

_Sure. Good luck!_

And then he spends three weeks working 18-hour days and running miles and miles on the treadmill and skating alone in the almost-dark of an empty arena, trying to tire himself out enough that he’s too tired to obsess about what Geno and Anna are working out, to exhaust his brain to the point that it will shut off and actually let him sleep.

It sort of works, sometimes.

The boys have a stellar October, and an even better November.

“I think I’m maybe in love with Geno,” Sid tells Taylor, because he doesn’t know who else to tell. He’s still planning to tell Geno, assuming he ever comes back to Pittsburgh. Assuming he’s still single and didn’t _work out thing with Anna_ , or whatever.

Instead of the shock or surprise he’s expecting all he gets is exasperation.

“Jesus, Sid,” She sighs, put-upon and long-suffering. “How many years has it been, and you _think maybe_?”

“I mean, I _am_ ,” he amends, “but he might not. It’s just, I think he might be back with Anna.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No.”

“Did you ask him?”

“No.”

Taylor sighs again.

“I don’t know, Sid,” she says, sarcastic, “that’s a tough one. If only there was a way to find out for sure.”

He hears his six-year-old nephew shriek suddenly in the background, and Taylor hurriedly huffs _sorry,_ _gotta go_ as she hangs up.

Sid has found that Taylor has had a lot less patience for him, since having children.

Geno texts Sid a lot of pictures of food, and his dogs, and he doesn’t mention Anna again, or when or if he might be coming back to Pittsburgh.

Anna and Tatiana come in December, without Geno or Elena. For once they stay with Sid instead of in a hotel, and it’s nice having them, or at least nice having Tanya, for the week.

Then they stay for two, and three, and four. Sid starts to feel a little uncomfortable.

He doesn’t want to pry, or seem nosy, but even someone as generally stuck in his own head as Sid can’t help but begin to notice something seems off. The more he pays attention, the more he realizes there are lots of hushed conversations in Russian that end when Sid comes around, lots of loaded looks and furtive calls taken out of the room.

Niki is _destroying_ on the ice, recording more points in the month of January than any Pen in history, but he’s starting to look too thin for this point in the season, always pale and drawn and halfway to startled. When Sid finally corners him in the kitchen on his way out the door to morning skate, all it takes is Sid saying _Hey, Nik, is everything okay?_ , and suddenly there are tears in Niki’s eyes.

“Of course, sure Sid. Things are fine, just tired.” He says it to the floor without even the barest attempt to sell it, and Sid feels the tug in his chest, right where his heart sits. It’s taken awhile, but after 2 and a half years of Niki living in his house, they’ve gotten pretty close. Sid just hates to see him hurting.

“Nik,” he says as kindly as he can, “you know you can talk to me, whatever it is. Right?”

And when Niki finally raises his head the look on his face makes the hair on the back of Sid’s neck stand on end.

“Hey, hey,” Sid rounds the end of the kitchen island without another thought, puts his hands on Niki’s shoulders. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“It’s. Jesus. Shit, Sid.” Niki shuffles his feet and looks back at the ground. “I’m not supposed to say.”         

Sid carefully schools his face into the expression he imagines he would have if he didn’t give a shit if Geno and Anna got back together. He’s not sure how successful he is, but it’ll have to do on short notice, because his immediate thought is that’s the thing he’s not supposed to know.

“Did your dad ask you not to tell me?”

Niki nods miserably.

“He said you’d just worry. But. But I think he might be in trouble and now. We haven’t. No one’s heard from him or Elena in a week, Sid.”

Sid feels his heartrate kick up suddenly while his brain tries to catch up, pinging from _Oh shit he’s back with Anna_ straight over to _oh shit, wait, what?_

“What do you mean, no one’s heard from him? Maybe they’ve just been busy, or – are you sure?”

Sid tries to remember the last text he got from Geno. He pulls up his message string and sees it there, a picture of Geno’s steak dinner, dated 8 days ago.

“We’re sure,” Niki says, but then his eyes go wide. “Wait, you haven’t heard from him have you?”

Sid shakes his head, watching the hope drain out of Niki’s face.

“Not since last Tuesday.”

Niki nods solemnly.

“That was the day before,” is all he says, and Sid has to take a seat before his knees give.

“The day before _what_ , Niki?” he breathes, and when Niki hesitates Sid kicks the chair across from him away from the table, an invitation for Nikita to join him.

“I’ll be late,” Niki starts, looking at the door then back at Sid, torn.

“Sit.” It’s not a request, it’s an order, and Niki drops his bag and sits.

 

**\+ + +**

 

The Russian elections last May had been, to no one’s surprise, enveloped by a swirl of controversy. Allegations of unfair practices and ballot tampering were rampant, as always, but this year Putin’s polling numbers ahead of the election had been low enough that the reported landslide in his favor had been a particularly, blatantly obvious fabrication, leading to months of protests and citizen uprisings, put down as always by the firm fist of the Russian Government. Sid can vaguely remember hearing about it, can recall landing on CNN a time or two this summer to images of demonstrations in the streets and police in riot gear, but it had just seemed like more of the same.

He feels like an idiot, now – a fool for flipping right past, for being so lost in his own head that, as usual, he couldn’t see anything beyond the end of his own nose.

Apparently, after more than 30 years of consolidating power, Putin is no longer in the mood to even pretend to tolerate dissent. To keep his ironclad grasp on the country’s power structure he’s been closing ranks, closing off outside media, closing border crossings and visa offices, making it harder to get in and, more pertinently, harder to get out.

Sid had heard rumors, whispers around the league about some other teams with Russian players, about Contract disputes and Visa issues. The two Russian kids expected to go in the first round of the draft this year both pulled out at the last minute, opting instead to stay and play in the Kontinental League. But as far as Sid knows, there were no such issues with Niki getting out of the country. There hadn’t even been a discussion of possible concern around the office.

“They didn’t threaten me with anything,” Niki says, “not yet at least. But as soon as Volnorov and Mikhailovich pulled out of the draft, my pop wanted me to get out. That’s why I was back in town so early – just in case. I just thought he was being paranoid, you know, because of how things went with him back in the day.”

Niki shrugs, teary eyed and stricken.

“They were all coming over together at Christmas, just visiting me for the break, you know? But there was some problem with my pop’s Visa, Elena’s too. He knew it was fishy, knew it was all political, all about leverage. They couldn’t let all of us out at once, you know? We might just stay here, and how would that look, if the Malkins flee the fucking country?”

“So he sent your mom and Tatiana,” Sid nods, the full picture starting to come together.

“He knew you’d take care of them,” Niki nods, and even though his chest feels frozen, too tight to breathe, Sid still feels a little spark of warmth at the idea that Geno trusted him with that, with taking in his family and keeping them safe. Even if he kept Sid in the dark about what was happening, and why, he still knew he could count on Sid’s help, no questions asked, just as he _should_ , and at least that’s something.

“It’s was just supposed to be a few weeks until he could get here with Elena,” Niki goes on, “but he ran into some roadblocks trying to get everything arranged, and now -. They left last Wednesday and. Well. They should have been in Romania by now. We should have heard from them.”

He lays his head down on his arms and sighs, and his shoulders start to shake in the silence. Sid reaches over across the table to pet his head, completely at a loss.

Romania? How could this all be going on all around him and he’d missed it? How could Geno be in Romania, or - whatever was worse than that, like _not_ in Romania and just fucking _missing_ \- without Sid even realizing it?

Anna comes into the kitchen for coffee looking suddenly frail in her thin robe, dark circles under her red eyes. She sighs when she sees Niki face down on the table, Sid’s hand resting on the back of his neck.

“Zhenya not want you to worry,” she says, apologetic or resigned or maybe just exhausted, Sid can’t really tell.

But Sid does worry. He worries for the next five days, during which the team goes on the road and Niki scores goals like his stick is on fire and looks more and more haunted with each passing day, and Sid and Anna smile for Tatiana’s sake and act like everything is fine and speak to each other only with their eyes.

He worries until almost midnight on the sixth day, when Anna appears unexpectedly at his bedroom door to tell him they’ve made it to Bucharest.

“Be here, soon as possible,” she says, and Sid just nods while relief unspools in his chest.

 

**\+ + +**

 

For all that he loves Russia with a burning passion, Geno’s trust issues with his motherland go way back, borne of the scars she left on him the first time he tried to leave her loving embrace. In retrospect that turns out to be a good thing, in that all three of his children and the bulk of his wealth were made in America. Geno’s got real estate holdings in South Florida and most of his money still in American banks and American markets.

All he needs is a job, which takes about 20 minutes to iron out once Sid mentions it to Mario, and he’s once again a legal resident of Pittsburgh.

By the time the regular season ends, he’s moved his family minus Niki into a high-rise apartment down near the arena – three bedroom, two bath, Sid learns from the lease agreement that Geno asks him to look over, just in case they’re trying to trick him with their complicated English legalese – just until the season is over and he has time to look for a house. There’s some additional paperwork because he and Anna are divorced, but because she’s the mother of three American Citizens and financially dependent on Geno, they manage to legalize her status as well.

Sid and Geno travel with the team for the playoffs and sit next to each other on the plane, but as a member of the Player Development staff, now Geno gets his own room on the road. There’s a knock on Sid’s door one night, at the hotel in Boston during the second round, tentative and soft. But Sid’s in the middle of shaving and he knows it’s Geno and he just – he hasn’t had a chance to talk to him, to find out where things stand with Anna or whatever, and he just.

He doesn’t go to the door.

He’s too old to do the shit they did before, back then, with Geno’s heart and life and loyalties all divided up between Anna and his kids and Sid. Sid’s old enough to want it all this time, or nothing at all.

Jesus, he hopes it’s not nothing at all. But he just wants to make it to summer and then they’ll figure it out, because it’s the middle of the playoffs, and this just isn’t the time to be stirring up any shit or rocking any boats.

So he tries to focus all his energies on hockey and not let the ambiguity of the bedroom situation at Geno’s house eat at him too much.

It works, mostly.

They make it to the finals – the fucking _finals_ – and end up losing in six to the Stars. Niki goes home to his parents’ apartment after the Game 6 loss in Pittsburgh, and Sid goes home alone and wonders if they’re crying on the couch at Geno’s, eating Russian takeout.

Then he remembers that Anna’s here now, so they probably don’t need Russian takeout anymore.

He drinks vodka alone on the couch until he passes out. He wakes up right there in the morning, house dark and quiet as a tomb.

 

**\+ + +**

 

In the summer Geno buys a house, right down the road from Sid in his same old neighborhood, and now there are six or seven bedrooms so Niki, of course, moves in with his family. Because, why wouldn’t he?

Sid makes it about 3 days in the empty house before he can’t take it anymore. He goes to New York to get his dick sucked and to Nova Scotia to hang out with his family. Geno texts him about schools for Elena and hockey for Tanya and pictures of their new puppy.

Sid feels bad that Geno had to leave his dogs behind with friends in Russia, and the new dog is definitely adorable, but that doesn’t mean Sid wants to see four thousand pictures of the puppy lolling around with the family by the pool and playing with the family in the yard, all summer long.

Sid goes to Miami to get his dick sucked some more, because he’s sick of looking at all the fucking pictures of Malkin Family Fun Time. He comes back home to an empty house again and thinks, shit.

Just, fucking _, goddamn motherfucking_ _shit_.

A few days later, Geno stops by.

“Why you go to Miami and not say? I tell you stay in my house. Or maybe I come with you.” He grins, a sort of parody of his usual leering grin, hesitant and a little uncertain.

A small, vindictive part of Sid imagines telling Geno exactly what he did in Miami, but that’s not going to help anything. The only thing that’s going to help is telling the truth, and the truth makes him feel embarrassed and exposed and a million other uncomfortable feelings he’d rather not feel, but he’s really too old for this shit. He reminds himself of that, for the hundredth time, and then he just does it.

He tells the truth.

“It’s just, I wasn’t sure. If we should do that, anymore.”

“Do what?” Geno raises his eyebrows, face a picture of mock-confusion. “Go on beach? Go fish?”

Sid rolls his eyes.

“Fishing and the beach are fine, Geno – I mean the other stuff.”

“You mean sex, you don’t want to do anymore.” Geno looks a little like he’s about to get stubborn, lower jaw jutting and bottom lip poked out. “This why you don’t answer when I knock, in Boston?”

“No, that’s not.” Sid swallows and tries to focus on what he wants to say. He thinks 30 ridiculous goddamn years is probably long enough of this, and it’s probably way past time to just rip the Band Aid off and let the fucking chips fall where they may. He takes a deep breath.

“I didn’t answer the door because I thought. I think you might be back with Anna and if so, then, I’m happy for you. I mean - eventually, probably, I can be. But I’m not going to do that again, like we did before.”

He stops and looks up, meets Geno’s eyes, but he doesn’t let himself focus on them too much, doesn’t want to try to guess what Geno might be thinking, or try to tailor what he’s saying to Geno’s reaction. He just keeps saying what he means.

“I know we’ve never really, like. _Talked_ about it. So I don’t know how you feel, but. I love you, G. I’d like it if we could try to. To _be_ together. _Really_ together. And if that’s not what you want then that’s okay, and you know I’ll always, always be your friend, but we have to _just_ be friends, no messing around, no sex. I can’t -. I mean, I don’t _want to_. Share you, or whatever. Not again. Not anymore.”

Geno watches him with big eyes. There’s a beat of tense silence before he speaks.

“I’m not get back with Anna,” Geno says, “that’s _neve_ r happen, Sid. But is not like America, when you’re divorcing and then maybe you never see or speak again. Anna is family, she’s mama for my babies.”

He’s speaking slowly, carefully, looking at Sid with cautious, wary eyes.

“Have to share with her. Is right thing, you know? Love you too, Sid, and I want be together with you, like you say. S _o much_ , very much. But still – I’m still needing take care of my family.”

He raises his eyebrows, face flushed and hopeful. A little laugh comes bubbling out of Sid’s throat, before he can stop it.

"G, holy shit, I didn’t. I don’t mean you shouldn’t take care of your _family_ , I just meant. You sleep with me, right? Just me. No Anna, no anyone else. And you -. You live here with me.”

Geno’s eyes go wide at that, and Sid waves his hand guiltily.

“I mean, only if you want to. That’s not, like. It doesn’t have to be part of the deal.”

Geno grins, his big dopey grin. Sid’s heart flutters wildly.

“Live here with Sid, I don’t know,” Geno sighs wistfully, but his mischievous eyes give his game away. “Maybe I’m make mess, Sid get mad. Maybe leave clothes on ground, or have dirty dish in sink. Or sometime I’m forget, leave top off toothpaste, and then - big fight.” He shrugs, shakes his head with exaggerated dismay. “Will never work.”

Sid just reaches for the front of Geno’s shirt, whispers _shut up, dumbass_ , against his mouth as he drags him in for a kiss.

 

**\+ + +**

 

Geno doesn’t really move much stuff in, not that he has a lot of stuff these days. But he stays with Sid every night, so that seems fair enough to Sid.

Geno tells his family that Sid is his boyfriend now, and Elena is embarrassed, and Tatiana is excited and Anna is silently, begrudgingly tolerant.

Niki hugs his dad and then hugs Sid and then tells them they’re both totally obvious idiots. Sid doesn’t argue with that assessment.

Without Niki in the house they really have the run of the place, and they fuck in every room and in the cabana by the pool and in the hot tub and out on the deck while they wait for the grill to heat up so they can make burgers for lunch. They go together to the grocery store and the dry cleaners and sometimes to the movies. They stand side by side in the kitchen chopping vegetables for dinner and Sid sips wine and Geno sips mineral water and they eat in front of the TV, watching NHL network. They go to Tanya’s hockey games and Elena’s orchestra concert and they hold hands on top of the table in a restaurant right in the middle of Pittsburgh.

They ride to work together and home together.

They tell Mario and Fletch and eventually the whole team knows, and it doesn’t matter. Just like Sid had known, down deep, it wouldn’t, even though part of him was still afraid it might.

Geno suggests going to his house in Miami for the break this winter, and just to see what happens, Sid tells him what he was doing last time he was in Miami.

Geno’s eyes flash dark and jealous. He pushes Sid against the kitchen island, manhandles him until he’s face down on the marble with the elastic band of his shorts stretched around his ankles, and fucks him so hard he almost cries. In the good way.

“You not do, anymore, right?” Geno asks after, when he’s drug them in to the couch where they’re collapsed together in a sweaty, disheveled heap. “Only me and you now, yeah?”

“Only me and you, G,” Sid grins at him and laces their fingers together, drags him closer for a long, slow kiss.

“Oh, Jesus,” Niki says from the doorway, his old house key still dangling from his hand. His face is bright red.

Sid snatches a blanket over his naked lower half and joins Niki in his impression of a tomato. Geno’s jeans are undone, fly still ripped open and shirt rucked up under one arm from Sid’s wandering hand, but all he does is laugh.

“Maybe you learn, not sneak in our house like thief.”

“I’m not sneaking, I have a key!” Niki protests, voice ratcheting up higher. “How was I supposed to know you guys would be -. It’s the middle of the day!”

“Should be glad you don’t walk in 10 minutes ago, you really be sorry,” Geno shrugs. “Is why they make doorbell.”


End file.
